An Assignment For Croup And Vandemar
by bauble123
Summary: Richard's been captured by Serpentine, & he doesn't know why, Mr Croup and Mr Vandemar are back, and to top it off the Marquis thinks he and Door should enlist them to rescue Richard. Are the killers loyal, or are there deeper plots afoot? Much Croup and Vandemar - wonderful fun to write "I prefer not to think of it as murder, but as an art form." Mr Croup.
1. Prologue

_THIS ae nighte, this ae nighte,_  
>—Refrain: Every nighte and alle,<br>_Fire and fleet and candle-lighte,_  
>—Refrain: And Christe receive thy saule.<p><em>This aye night, this aye night, and every night and all, fire and fleet and candlelight and Christ receive thy soul.<em>

**An assignment for Croup and Vandemar**

"No." Door was adamant.

"It really is the only way." The Marquis assured her. "I can tell you I'm not the happiest about it either – I mean, they killed me – but we haven't got a choice."

"We always have a choice."

"Not this time. Do you want Richard to see the light of day again? This is _Serpentine_ we're discussing, Door."

"Exactly! I barely think even those two will be able to stop her."

"But they will. Door, they have ensured the burning of entire cities, the torturing to death of whole monasteries. They can do anything, and they're virtually indestructible."

"I know." Door said, her voice cold as ice and sharp as a dagger. She was still a little sore on this point.

"Oh, come now, Door. Have you really not gotten over that? I have no idea how they escaped, but they did, and now they may be useful."

"De Carabas! These aren't some meagre murderers we're discussing; they're Croup and Vandemar! They are the slimiest, most terrifying, most evil creatures that London has ever known, below or above!"

"I know." The Marquis put a hand theatrically to his head and sat down with a bump on the garden chair, which just about managed not to disintegrate. Door gave him a look of utter disgust.

"Oh, Warrior!" called a crackly voice. Richard sat up groggily, rubbing his throbbing head. It felt as though he had been run over by a herd of elephants – not the first time he had felt this way since he came to London below. A woman entered. She was tall, and dressed in a ragged gown that once, a millennium or so ago, might have been a colour bordering on white. A long train drooped down behind her and trailed along the filthy floor. Serpentine, most dangerous of the seven sisters and Hunter's former mistress, had arrived. "How are we feeling?" She asked, in mock pity.

"A little rough." Richard answered truthfully.

"Oh dear, is my poor little warrior feeling sore?" Serpentine goaded, kicking Richard with the pointed end of her snake-skin stilettos.

"You had no call to do that." Richard moaned.

"My call comes from my heart, as the old saying goes." said Serpentine. "And my heart tells me you deserve all the pain I can offer you. Think of it as a service, my dear."

"What the hell is wrong with you?" Richard asked, in a momentary fit of anger. Then he realised who he was speaking to and shrunk back against the wall, a terrified look in his eyes.

"I seek only recompense for what you have done to me, Warrior." The woman's voice was cold and emotionless.

"What? What have I ever done to you, other than turning up drunk? Door did that as well, and you're not doing this to her-" Richard was cut short by Serpentine's cruel laugh.

"What have you done to me? What have _you _done to _me_? Oh, Richard of Mayhew, have you no eyes? Can you not see what you have done?"

"It's Mayhew. Just Mayhew. And no I bloody can't see what I've done."

"You killed Hunter."


	2. Chapter 1: Return of the fox & the wolf

"I did what?" Richard was outraged.

"You killed hunter." Serpentine repeated, her face stony.

"No I didn't! What on earth made you think I did?"

"You had her knife. You were with her in the labyrinth."

"So was the Marquis – why aren't you kidnapping him?"

"The Marquis De Carabas is cruel and heartless, but he is not a killer. You, on the other hand, appear to be." Richard sat stunned. He had been through a lot since he picked Door up of the pavement: he had ended up in London below, passed the ordeal of the key, almost been murdered by Lamia, killed the great beast of London, returned to London above and then come back again. But really, assuming he had killed Hunter was too much. He'd always respected the woman…except for that bit when he had thought she was a hooker.

"I wouldn't kill hunter – I don't think I'm really capable of murder. I respected her, admired her. And she _gave _me the dagger. Honestly."

"And why should I believe you, upworlder?" mocked Serpentine.

"Because I'm telling the truth."

"I sincerely doubt that." Serpentine prodded Richard in the stomach with the whittled end of her staff and left. Richard was doubled over, tears streaming down his face. Damn. Why was he so weak? And why did no-one ever believe him? He untwisted and stood up, groaning with the pain and effort of it all. He looked at himself. He was dirty – filthy, even, and he badly needed a wash. No-one seemed to have provided him with any water, though. He stood desolate. Was he ever going to be rescued?

**XXXXXX**

Two men were walking through the smoky tunnels. They wore ill-fitting suits that had clearly been designed by someone who had been given a picture of a suit, but had less than no idea what one was, or how tall and hulking Mr Vandemar really was. The smaller of the two had gingery hair, and yellow teeth and eyes. He was the embodiment of a fox, sly, cunning and ruthless, with a mock-suave edge. Then there was his associate, a man too tall for normality, with wild black-brown hair and a mad gleam in his eyes. His teeth were longer and sharper than any should be, but the back ones were blunt enough to grind bone with ease, which they were frequently required to. Something squeaked in the darkness. Mr Vandemar shot out a hand and grabbed the wriggling shape. It was a rat, and about its neck was a small scroll.

" 's paper on here." He grunted, looking to Mr Croup.

"Give it to me, then, and have done with it." Mr Croup snatched the scroll from the rat, greedily. He looked around. Mr Vandemar was still looking at him expectantly. "What?"

"Can I eat it?"

"Yes. Fine. Of course. Why do you feel the need to ask me?"

"I dunno. Just do."

"Well don't."

"Ok." Mr Vandemar stared the rat in the eyes, unblinking, and then, in one expert motion, snapped it's neck, before proceeding to grind it between his molars, eating from the head up. He made a face and spat out the back of the rat, which consisted of a mangled torso, bloody paws at the end of legs showing half-chewed sinew, and a tail hanging limply.

"What's wrong with it?" asked Mr Croup, in a tone of upper-class distaste.

"Sewer rat." Mr Vandemar explained.

"Aren't they all?"

"Yeah, but this one's been in pig muck."

"Delectable."

"Nah – underfed pigs."

"I see. Shall we be getting back now, Mr Vandemar?"

" 'Spose so."

"Yes, quite." The pair walked along in silence for a while, then Mr Croup, as ever, began to talk. "I do believe, Mr Vandemar, that the Door girl thought she had got rid of us for good."

"Mm."

"But of course she hadn't. We kill people, Mr Vandemar, but we ourselves are exceedingly hard to kill, are we not? I prefer not to think of it as murder, but as an art form. People ask us to do a service, and we do it in the most beautifully excruciatingly painful way possible. Asking for an assassination from us is like asking an artist to do a commission." They had arrived at the old hospital and they stepped gingerly through the splintered doors and down the multitude stairs to the basement. It was cold and dark, just how they liked it. Mr Croup took up a scalpel and proceeded to make fine lacerations with it on the corpse of a former client. Mr Vandemar set about looking for something to eat. After a minute, he spat out a few left over feathers from the pigeon he had been munching on.

"You going to look at the paper?" he asked.

"What paper?"

"The one on the snack."

"Oh, the rat's scroll. Now, Mr Vandemar, who do we know that uses rats for sending post?"

"Don't know." Mr Vandemar licked pigeon sinew off his fingers.

"Why, the Marquis De Carabas, of course. You remember - that nice crucifixion?"

"Oh, yeah, that."

"So, then, shall I open it?"

"Yeah. Whatever."

"I appreciate your enthusiasm, Mr Vandemar." Mr Croup pulled the scroll from his pocket, unrolling it and reading it aloud:

"If Mr Vandemar has not eaten this, I would like to notify Mr Croup and his associate that I will be coming to visit you at some point in the not so distant future, in the capacity of possible employer, so please do not repeat your attempts at crucifixion of me. Yours, the Marquis De Carabas." Mr Croup bunched up the note and tossed it to Mr Vandemar. "Stop licking your fingers and use this as a napkin." he said. Mr Vandemar barely listened, and instead pulverised the note between his teeth and continued to lick his fingers. Mr Croup draped himself over a chair. "Well, well, well, Mr Vandemar, it seems we have interest from an unanticipated party. Why, we must ask ourselves, would the Marquis De Carabas, whom we murdered, wish to employ us? What disastrous turn of events could cause this dramatic turnaround?"

"I don't know."

"It was a rhetorical question, Mr Vandemar."

"Right."

"Yes. Remember that in future." Mr Croup said icily. Mr Vandemar ignored him, picking up a meat cleaver from the side and cleaning his nails with it, digging the monstrous blade under the edges.


	3. Chapter 2: a daring escape

Door was pacing up and down the long room incessantly, saying indecipherable words rhythmically under her breath. The Marquis sat sprawled on the sumptuous couch. He yawned widely, one chocolate coloured hand covering his mouth. "I am glad you opened this place for us, Door. I like a little class in my surroundings."

"Shut up."

"What's the matter, Door? Worried about your little Richard?"

"Just shut up."

"Oh so you are, then?"

"Well, you aren't exactly doing anything to help him, are you?" she said, accusingly.

"I've done all I can. I sent the message to Croup and Vandemar, didn't I?" The Marquis refused to admit any wrongdoing. Door laughed derisively.

"I really don't think that'll help much – Mistress Sweetpaw hasn't even returned."

"Ah, there's a thing. Door, I hate to say this, but I don't think that little rat is likely to return."

"What do you mean?"

"Vandemar has a…thing for rats."

"As in…?"

"He likes the taste."

"Oh." Door sat down with a bump on the floor. "What, you seriously think Mr Vandemar ate Mistress Sweetpaw?"

"Yep."

"Gods, really?"

"Pretty much certainly." Door shuddered.

"That's…horrible."

"That's Mr Vandemar."

"Remind me again why we're considering employing these two?"

"Because it may well be the only way to save Richard."

Door sighed. "Temple and arch. We're in a right mess."

"Yes, we are, and I'm off to consult the old firm. You coming?"

"Fine." Door said, resignedly picking up her coat.

"Off we hop then." said the Marquis, jovially, as they left the place.

Richard was lying prone on the dirty floor, his face covered in muck and grime. Serpentine stood up, satisfied with her work.

"You see, Warrior, this is what happens to those who lie to me. Tell me again: did you kill Hunter?"

"No!" Richard cried, hauling his body, which seemed heavier than ever before, up off of the floor. "You – you – you – bitch! You haven't even listened to a word I've said."

"It has all been lies, though, Richard of Mayhew, lies and slander."

"Shut up."

"Ooh – a little feisty, are we?" Serpentine crooned. Richard gritted his teeth and stayed silent, refusing to rise to the bait. "I'll see you soon then, Warrior." She stalked away.

Richard sat there. It had been three days and he was almost dead. He was never, ever, in a million years, going to survive long enough to be rescued. He was going to have to try and escape. He was the Warrior of London, and he had Hunter's blessing. He could do this. If anyone could do this, it was him. Well, probably. Possibly. He sat down and set about devising a plan. He could never hurt Serpentine; she was too old, and too tough. He might be able to trick her though, or maybe one of the maids.

There was a clattering of footsteps on the stairs of the old hospital. Mr Vandemar looked up briefly from the rat he was skinning, and then returned to it. Mr Croup looked up and smiled – a small, wicked, chilling smile. "Marquis?" he called. "No need to falter on the steps – come, show your face." The Marquis stepped quickly down, with small, jerky steps. Door followed, close behind, hiding a little.

"Mr Croup, Mr Vandemar." The Marquis' greeting was brusque.

"How lovely to see you this evening," Mr Croup said, sounding for all the world like a kindly eighteenth century aristocrat – if you weren't careful, you might forget what this man – if man was the correct word - really was. "And the Lady Door, my, this is an unexpected pleasure." He bowed low, extending a hand. The Marquis tapped it once, hard, and Mr Croup withdrew it, with an amused smile. Door remained silent. "So, then, what brings the noble Marquis de Carabas back to our humble abode?" asked Croup.

"I believe it may be in our interests to employ you. How much do you charge?"

"Well, that depends on so much, my good Marquis. For old friends like you, we might lower our prices, or we might not. What's the job?"

"Going against Serpentine. She has a friend of ours."

"Oh, I see, you mean the Warrior, good old Richard Mayhew."

"He was fun." Mr Vandemar chipped in. "I broke his finger." The villain chuckled to himself. Door shivered.

"Yes." The Marquis' voice was cold.

"So you want us to rescue your little friend?"

"Yes."

"We are assassins and torturers, Marquis. We do not do rescues."

"What if the price is right?"

"Depends. What are you offering?"

"How would you like this?" The Marquis pulled a piece of paper from his pocket and, with a flourish, presented it to Mr Croup. It was a page from a catalogue, showing a beautiful set of two Tang dynasty vases – gorgeously ornamented and embossed with curling dragons in pinks and reds. Mr Croup looked at it hungrily, a gleam showing in his china blue eyes.

"You have it?"

"Yes."

"Evidence?" The Marquis pulled a small camera from his pocket and showed Croup the image of him holding the vase.

"Taken two days ago." he proclaimed. Croup nodded.

"But," he said. "Let this be known. If you fail to produce this I will kill you. I will tear you into shreds, bit by bit. It will be agonising, and it will go on for as long as I can make it. It will be a thousand times worse than crucifixion." The Marquis bowed his head gravely.

"I abide by that." he said. "If I fail you, I have no right to resist."

"Good, good." Mr Croup spat on his hand and put it out for the Marquis to take. Shuddering a little, and with an expression of extreme disrelish, the Marquis shook it. There it was: an irrevocable promise.

"Now be about your business." said the Marquis, as he turned to leave. "I will be checking up. Come, Door." And the two left, to conquer the myriad staircases and be uneasy that, for once, the enemy was on the same side.

"Well, Mr Vandemar, this is something new." Mr Croup said, leaning against the wall nonchalantly. "We're rescuing someone."

"Killing involved?"

"Quite possibly."

"I'm up for it."

"Um, hi?" Richard called across the room. The woman in black turned. She was tall and willowy, dressed in faded black silk pinched tightly about her thin, wasp-like waist. She came slowly over, but did not speak. Richard lifted his arms and, with a heavy heart, hit her once, hard, knocking her unconscious against the wall. He looked in wonderment at his hands, amazed that he had the strength to do that. Then he took Hunter's knife from his pocket; Serpentine had left him that at least, though he couldn't think why. Perhaps she thought it would spark his conscience and cause him to tell her that he had killed Hunter. Holding the knife before him, he hurried out of the room.

He was not sure why he held the knife like that – maybe it was superstition, and he was using the knife as a symbol of Hunter's blessing, or possibly it was simply because he thought it might actually be useful should he come up against any adversaries. He shut his eyes, trying to remember the way out, but it was no use; Richard could get lost in his own back garden, or even the tiny grocery store that had been next to his flat. He paused, remembering the wonderful mundaneness of it all, but that was a world and another life away from here - and anyway, he had returned once and he had not enjoyed it one bit. London below was the only life now – once you had a taste of it, you were locked into it forever.

By some freak of nature, or perhaps by dint of Hunter's blessing, or the gods smiling down on him, Richard found himself at the doorway to the place. He ran out, breathing in the dank air in huge breaths. He cried a jubilant thank you to the Temple and the Arch, which surprised him a little. He had never before had anything to do with those two sacred houses of which London below folk were so fond – if fond was the word, which it wasn't. Richard Mayhew really was settling into this life - maybe one day he would use his title of Warrior. Not yet though, not while Hunter's body still lay intact, not before the seeds of time had crept in and the worms had made their homes in her flesh. Then he ran, out of Serpentine's fiefdom and into the maze of sewers and tunnels that made up London below. He tripped and fell once or twice, covering himself in foul-smelling greenish slime but he continued, joyous at his escape.


	4. Chapter 3: the lost boys

Serpentine glided through and into the room where her captive was kept.

"Oh, Warrior," she began, her sharp voice echoing about the place. Then she stopped and stared – her woman was knocked out, lying pale and unmoving on the stone floor. Serpentine looked around, but there was no-one there. Her captive was gone. She sniffed the air and found that he was out of her fiefdom and she was helpless to do anything. She screamed aloud in frustration and, had she been inclined to ridiculous acts of anger, she would have kicked the wall. Then she muttered a curse in some ancient language, calling down the fire and wrath of the gods onto Richard Mayhew.

But it was destined to do nothing, for the gods to whom she called were occupied with other things, more arcane and occult than she, and they cared little for the fates of the mortals beneath them, and because she had not in fact cursed Richard Mayhew, but Richard of Maybury, who did not exist. That was one useful thing about the inability of London Below's population to get Richard's name right; magic cannot work at a distance unless you call upon somebody's true name.

Richard ran onwards until he became weary, and his clothes became stained with sweat and mud and the occasional patch of dried brownish blood. He paused for a second and then, quite suddenly, found himself pushed against a wall at knife-point. He put his hands in the air in a gesture of terrified surrender. He couldn't really see his attackers, because any move would have severed his neck, and the people – if they were people – were far shorter than he was. Rough hands searched his pockets and he felt them pull out his knife.

"P-please don't take that." he croaked.

"Why?" asked a voice, boyish and young.

"It's a – a good luck charm, given to me by a dying friend. It probably has a curse or something on it." Richard said, inventing wildly. "She was a very dangerous woman."

"Oh yes? Anyone I might've heard of?" the voice continued. It really did sound like a small boy, one of fairly high station judging by the southern, educated accent, Richard thought. It wasn't exactly the voice he might have expected. It wasn't the prissy tones of a spoilt rich kid but more practical and down to earth, like the son of a university professor, or a diplomat, or a politician – someone intelligent, anyhow.

"Hunter." he said. The knife drew away from his neck. He was surprised. The boy – it was a boy, Richard realised – tossed the knife back to him. He caught it deftly. The boy who had thrown it now came up to face Richard. He was quite short, with an angelic face, big blue eyes and blonde curls circling his head. He wore what looked to be the remains of a prettily embroidered doublet and hose. They were now brownish and crusted with dirt but Richard could still pick out traces of gold and green thread in them.

"You know Hunter?" the boy asked.

"Yes, I do."

"Who're you, then? Give us a name."

"Richard, Richard Mayhew."

"Never heard of you. Any of you heard of him, boys?" he looked around at the scruffy group of other boys scattered about the tunnel. There was a chorus of muttered negatives and a wave of shakings of heads.

"I-I'm also known as the Warrior." Richard said. "I killed the great beast of London." The boy looked at him incredulously.

"_You're _the Warrior? Seriously?"

"Yes. This knife," Richard said, pulling it out of his pocket and twirling it about a bit. "Is the very knife that stabbed the great beast."

"That's pretty good." the boy consented.

"Who're you, then?" Richard asked.

"Who're we? You don't know?" Richard shook his head, lamely. "He doesn't know who we are, boys!" Their laughter echoed about the tunnel. A larger boy came over and hefted the small blonde one onto his shoulders, where the boy scrambled into a standing position. The larger one gripped tight onto his ankles.

"We," the boy announced. "Are the lost boys!" This cheer was echoed by the rest of them. Richard's eyes widened, and he had to stop himself laughing.

"The lost boys?" he said, incredulous and amused all at once. The boy looked disappointed, and angry.

"Yes. Haven't you heard of us? We're pretty famous."

"No, but seriously, the _lost boys_? Like Peter Pan and all that?"

"Pan. That bastard. No, we got rid of himyears ago. Always trying to boss us around, he was, and going on about _mothers_. I mean, really, down here, you don't need a mother. They only get in the way. He was an absolute idiot."

"You think? You know there's a book about you and him, right?"

"Oh, yeah, that thing. No-one reads that. It's all lies. This man sees us once, and then he goes and writes this great flipping novel about us. It's all romanticised tosh, that."

"Right…"

"It really is. Can you imagine people from London Below fighting pirates or red Indians? He made that all up."

"But hang on," Richard's mind was whirring. "Isn't…wasn't… Peter Pan's about dead children, isn't it? The lost boys are dead children…who fell out of their prams in Kensington, or something." Richard struggled to remember his mother's insensitive, frank descriptions of what really happened in such books.

"We're all as good as dead though, aren't we? The people up above have forgotten us. We lost boys are boys forgotten by our families."

"I see." Richard said, though he plainly didn't. "What's your name?"

"I'm Thomas Benton. I was forgotten over the plague – they dumped me out, thought I'd got it. It was just soot on my face. They mistook it. Want to tell your stories, boys? You can go first, Jamie."

"Wait a second," Richard desperately wanted some of this to fit with his image of the lost boys. "Aren't you all supposed to be called things like Slightly and Tootles?" Thomas looked at him as if he were mad.

"What do you take us for? Pan used to call us all those stupid things – belittled us all the time. That's partly why we kicked him out. That and because he was a prat."

"What exactly did you do to him?" Richard queried.

"You don't want to know." Richard did not press him further; when people said that in London Below, they meant it. "Carry on, Jamie." A small, slight boy with dark curls and hazel eyes, who looked as if he might have had rickets and walked on a crutch, presented himself to Richard.

"James Johnson," he said, in a thick cockney accent. "Also known as Jamie. Time of arrival: nineteen fifteen. I caught rickets from no milk or nuffin, did'n' I? An' then they fort I 'ad died in a bomb 'tack from the 'un. They dint look fer me any furver. Jus' left me. An' I come wand'rin' down 'ere an' Tommie picked me up. An' them other ones what was 'ere afore an' then left." The next one was medium sized and chubby, and very welsh – his name was Gwyn, and then there was tall, thin, ginger Hugh, small, shrewd Raphael and another one who was extremely new, and shy. He was normal boy sized, and clearly of Hispanic origin, from his complexion and accent. His teeth glinted bright white in his tanned face.

"This is our newest one." Thomas announced. "Introduce yourself." he told the boy.

"Fabio." the boy said, his vowels softened. "I come to London with my family. They leave me because I cost too much. They forget me. I come down here and I meet Lost Boys. I have new family now."

"He's properly modern." Thomas said, proudly. "From nineteen ninety eight."

"Right." Richard said, attempting, unsuccessfully, to keep the disbelief from his voice.

"What're you doing down here anyway?" Thomas asked, looking daggers at Richard. "This is our territory."

"Ah, is it? There's a pretty long story to explain how I got here." There was hurried conferring between the Lost Boys. Richard stood, shifting uneasily. After a minute, the tall one – Gwyn, Richard remembered – came forward.

"You can come back to our place." he said, his thick welsh accent making the words barely decipherable.

"Don't you go tryin' nuffin, though," James, the tiny cockney, added, dangerously. "I got my eye on you and," He sounded malicious, as if he knew the next part carried far more weight than anything else, which it did. "I got a knife."

Richard came to the end of his explanation on how he came to be there. He looked around. All the boys had been listening intently and now they sat, awed expressions on their faces.

"Did you do it?" Hugh, a tall red-head who was all long limbs and slightly too small suit, asked.

"Do what?"

"Kill Hunter."

"No," Richard put his head in his hands. "No, of course I didn't. The Beast got her, speared her on one end of his tusk." He shuddered, recalling it.

There had been nothing he could do. The beast had charged, full of fury and foaming at the mouth, white blobs of spittle flying out in odd directions. She had looked confident, tense, and had pushed the spear to sink it deep into the Beast's flank. Richard had thought, then, for a moment, that she was going to win, and the sight of her as the spear missed and fell with a dull clatter to the floor, as the look in her eyes changed from being ready and assured - almost jubilant - to terror and wretched despair at the knowledge of a fatal failure, had petrified him. He had watched as the Beast's jagged, razor sharp tusk had sliced down her side like a butcher cutting meat.

But then, to the Beast, she had been meat and nothing more. It horrified Richard more than he could say to realise that a person was like that in someone's eyes – especially when that person was someone as amazing as Hunter. He had seen as the blood began to gush from her side, hot and wet, staining her clothing a deep, awful crimson. He had heard the dreadful crunching sound as the Beast smashed Hunter's rib and crushed her broken bones and body to a mangled, hideous mess. What was worse was that the Beast just ran off without looking back. It had killed Hunter – _Hunter_ – and now off it trotted as if the murder it had committed, the life it had taken, meant nothing at all. As if Hunter was unimportant, no more than a speck of dust.

It had happened in a matter of seconds but when Richard remembered it, he remembered it in slow motion, each second shown in horrendous, heart-rending, high definition detail that he knew he had not had time to notice in the real event. Before he had come to London Below, his worst memory had been of being given a dress by his aunt Maude at his eighth birthday party…and he had been able to look back on that and laugh. He had never imagined that a memory could be so traumatic, so hellishly realistic, like living the event over and over again – but worse, because you knew what was going to happen, but you were powerless to stop it.

"You okay, mister?" Raphael, the brains of the group, asked, shaking Richard's shoulders. Richard dragged his mind back to the present and found himself pale and shivering, cold sweat dripping down the side of his face.

"F-fine." he said. "I'm fine. No worries." He smiled shakily. "What's the time? I can never tell down here."

"You can tell 'e used to be an upworlder." James said.

"So did you, though." Thomas pointed out, not unreasonably.

"Yeah, but 'e's not bin down 'ere long, 'as 'e. You can tell 'cos 'e can't tell what time it is."

"I suppose." Thomas checked his watch and then turned to Richard. "It's eleven o'clock pm." he said.

"Oh, right."

"We'll be off to bed – Gwyn, you're on night duty." Thomas continued. "You can kip here tonight, Mister Mayhew, if you like." Richard thought he detected a hint of admiration in the voice, though that may just have been his ego.

"Thanks."


	5. Chapter 4: investigations

Lamia was pinning up her long, faultless curtain of midnight hair when she heard a faint scrabble behind her. She thought nothing of it and took the last pin from her mouth and into her pale, slender fingers, stabbing it into her hair and taking her hands away to admire the results in the cracked mirror before her. It was quick, too quick. One minute she was taking down her hands and the next there was a knife to her throat. She let out a strangled gasp. Mr Croup laughed. Mr Vandemar added a little pressure to the blade.

"Hello, my pretty," Mr Croup said, in his oily baby-seal clubbing voice. "We'd like to talk to you."

"Well – I can't – _gasp – _exactly – talk when your – _gulp_ – associate has me – like this." she rasped. The knife edge made a slip of contact and a single bead of ice-cold blue blood squeezed up from the pale skin and oozed down her neck.

"Pull back, Mr Vandemar." Mr Croup said. Mr Vandemar reluctantly drew the knife away and took a step back, looming menacingly over the velvet. She scowled and twisted a tendril of hair up into the folds of her elaborate bun.

"What do you want, anyway?" she asked.

"We want to know everything you know about Serpentine…everything, mind. Don't miss out so much as a hair of her soon-to-be-non-existent head."

"Serpentine?" The velvet's face had gone, if this was possible, a shade whiter and had acquired a luminous quality of pure and utter terror. "Of the seven sisters?"

"That's the one." Mr Croup said.

"Do I need to cut her, Mr C? Make her understand?" Mr Vandemar suggested gleefully.

"No need, no need, Mr Vandemar," The fox paused. "Not yet."

Lamia gulped. Somehow she did not seem so perfect any longer. She wasn't porcelain or moonlight but instead she was the whites of the eyes of the mad. "I don't…I don't know what you're talking about." she managed.

Mr Croup barely had to give the imperceptible nod. Mr Vandemar knew where he was needed. "Liar." he growled, and ran the knife down one bone-china cheek. Ice-blue blood seeped from the gash, slipping and staining the whiteness. Lamia gave a muffled, startled and fearful sob.

"She's your sponsor, isn't she?" Mr Croup began. There was a nod from the bleeding velvet. "Sponsors all of your type." Another nod. "Tell us about her."

Trying not to cry, Lamia did so.

There was a rapping at the door. The woman, in her dressing table, almost ignored it, fixing up an intricate twist of pale blonde hair and paused to admire herself in the grand, ornate mirror. She clicked her fingers absently at the curvaceous woman in white silk who stood across from her. "The door," she said. The woman nodded and moved soundlessly through to answer the door.

Croup and Vandemar came in. Even they, vicious and unruly as they were, stayed back in respect of this stately woman in her draping moony fabrics.

"Lady Severn," said Mr Croup. The woman swivelled round and turned her piercing blue-black eyes on them, above her curved nose.

"Yes?" she said. "The Old Firm, I presume?"

"Indeed, madam. We are looking for information about your sister."

"Serpentine?" Severn tossed the loose locks of her golden hair over shoulder, twisted back to the mirror and smeared a pasty dab of peach-coloured cream over one cheek.

"Yes." Mr Vandemar spoke up this time. Mr Croup shot him a truly deadly look.

"We have," said the latter, pausing and giving a threatening little cough. "An…interest in her."

"I can't say I know much," Severn replied airily, coating her eyelids in green-gold sand. "I haven't seen Serpentine in centuries. I believe," she continued, cautiously. "That she's living in the London undercity these days." Croup nodded entreatingly.

"I shouldn't like it myself," Severn paused, here, to run her finger around the ornate pale-gold rim of the mirror. She held it up to the light as she talked, where the dust that edged it took in the light and cast it out in outsize shadows, coating the wall in a play of sunlight dappling off water. "I mean, it would mean one was living in the same place as Thames."

Still not facing the two cut-throats, the lady took on a more confidential tone. "It's not that I mind him particularly." said she. "He can be terribly regal and glamorous when he wants to be. I must say, when I was younger I rather took to him. We had a good while together; he's so grand, you know, intelligent – interesting. In all honesty, I should rather jump at the chance to be back with him. Only that's the thing about Thames. You're with him for a while, everywhere you go, town after town, city after city, and then he's gone. Just like that. Vanished. And I don't think you get a second chance. He isn't that sort.

"And apparently at the moment he's going about as an old man, don't you know. I'm so glad he never took that guise with me. Rubber boots and all, or so I'm told. I shouldn't like it. But then again, Serpentine always was so stubborn…and dreadfully set on feminism, you know. Loathes the sight of anything male."

"That is all very well, Lady, but it is curiously unhelpful." Croup explained, delicately. "What can you tell us about the Lady Serpentine's personal life and similar?"

"I _believe,_" said Severn, carefully. "That she keeps a woman or two, much as I do. We all do…or at least we did. There's only the three of us left these days." She sighed. "So sad, really. And the remainder of us are all _so _different. It's awfully upsetting when the old rivers go, and no-one remembers them. Shame, shame." She wiped an imaginary tear from one perfectly made-up eye. "The last I saw, hers were thin little girls – wasp-waisted. And she does insist on black so much. I prefer lighter colours but I suppose it's a matter of preference. her place isn't overly fortified – though of course in a place like that one must have some protection. She doesn't really believe anyone would ever dare to hurt her. It's ridiculous, really. There are so many threats and she just doesn't keep up public relations like I do. She's used as a threat in London Below, I understand. I am considered more benevolent-"

"Not by many people, though." Mr Croup pointed out, interrupted her.

"_No_," said Severn, in a tone of injured pride. "But I am selective. Now go." She waved a hand out at them. "That's all I know and you are getting on my nerves."

Avon was writing music when the Old Firm came calling, her wiry figure bent over the paper and her dark riverbed-brown hair tumbling in glossy wriggles over the paper as she wrote. The greenish-brown haired woman who had shown the murderers in walked lightly over to her mistress, her willowy figure in its weed-green dress unerringly graceful, and tapped Avon on the shoulder, retreating to stand respectfully against the wall. The river unbent immediately and sprang upright, fixing Croup and Vandemar with an interested stare from blue-green eyes that fair sparkled with life and vivacity. She extended a hand to the two. "The Old Firm?"

"And who else, my Lady Avon?" Croup said greasily, reaching out a hand. Avon realised her mistake and ignored it, twirling hurriedly back around to sit on the chaise-longue, covered in a moth-eaten patchwork quilt.

"Have you come about Serpentine?" she asked.

"How…astute of you. We have."

"Mm, I thought as much. I haven't seen her in _years_. She was in hiding for such a long time… Isn't she in London Below nowadays? Thames is mostly down there too at the moment, isn't he? A shame, really. In our younger days, Thames and I were quite close – romantically as well as geographically. He was lovely…he is lovely. He's the sort where you really want a second chance, and you wonder how on Earth you let him slip through your fingers, but you did and now he's gone and it's too late." She sighed. "Serpentine though… We-ell, she's awfully secretive and shady. Doesn't trust me." She stopped, shut her eyes, blindly grabbed the piece of paper and pen and began to write out notes ,ink flowing continuously. Her woman silently ushered them out.

"I hate the creative types." muttered Croup as they left.

Door was pacing again. It was all she seemed to do. The Marquis watched for a while and then, annoyed, grabbed her arm and forcibly pulled her into a chair.

"Stop it, Door." he said, sternly.

"I _can't_." she said.

"Door! Snap out of it! What's the matter?"

She sighed and shifted. "It's Richard." she admitted, eventually.

"Shit." murmured the Marquis quietly to himself. "Damn it. She has. I should have known…" Then he straightened up, coughed, and said, decidedly. "I've put the very best on the case, Door."

"Liar." she turned away from him. "You've put the very worst on it."


End file.
